


Surprises

by ineffablefool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, No Sex, No Smut, Other, Post-Canon, because my fat positivity is inclusive y'all, fat positivity, lovely visibly fat angel with features mysteriously absent from mainstream bopo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: Aziraphale can still surprise Crowley sometimes, even after six thousand years of friendship and nearly sixty of... whatever it is when a demon gets to kiss an angel any time he likes.  Like, for instance, when he suggests, one sleepy summer morning, that they go down for a swim.(Fluff and fat positivity, featuring an angel with lovely large bumpy-veined thighs.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 189
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Surprises

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the Soft Zone(TM)! Today is extra fat positivity, but still also completely asexual. Because that is how the Soft Zone goes.
> 
> [I got a Tumblr ask from an anon](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190522905274/hello-i-wanted-2-pop-over-tell-u-how-much-i) asking me if I could write a fic where Aziraphale had large thighs with varicose veins, because they have been made to feel self-conscious about their own thighs. This is my attempt! I hope it makes anon feel a little better about their own important and good leggies. (It was... a little hard, figuring out what the heck would make Aziraphale be so informal as to show _thigh_. Some poking around historical photography tells me that the idea I came up with is at least not too far from being reasonable!)
> 
> I know that thighs feature a lot in writing of a sexually explicit nature, but I promise there is no sexualization here. Crowley does flirt a bit, but both of the Ineffable Walnuts know he means nothing by it (other than "you're very pretty and I love you a lot"), and I hope it comes across clearly for everyone else as well.
> 
> I'm writing for the TV characterization, but I've decided that my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user Squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my first human AU [If Not Now, When](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816), which should help you know what to visualize as you read!
> 
> **Edit 9/19/2020:** Lovely commenter [EnchantressEmily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnchantressEmily/pseuds/EnchantressEmily) has created [beautiful fanart](https://www.deviantart.com/enchantressemily/art/Ineffable-Beach-Day-855647771) for this story and I love it a lot.

Funny, how the angel can still manage to surprise him.

_Like:_

Three days after the world didn’t end, Crowley decided to show up with chocolates. Straight from Luxembourg, they were, made by the descendant of a man Crowley had tempted into the business two centuries before. Guy’d been wasted on running an inn. His great-whatever-granddaughter was still using some of the old recipes, including a particular variety that had earned a very big smile, way back when. Box of those to celebrate their still being alive seemed like a good idea.

Crowley had called ahead to make sure of his welcome, because even though things had... very suddenly become different for the two of them, on the walk back from the Ritz, that didn’t mean he was used to it yet.

So he showed up, and pointed to the box with a shrug.

“Chocolates,” he said.

“ _Darling_ ,” Aziraphale said.

He plucked the box from Crowley’s hand, setting it neatly aside. Then he pulled Crowley into his fat beautiful arms and kissed him very, very softly.

Crowley liked soft. Actually liked it kind of extremely a lot.

And Aziraphale liked the chocolates, when he got to them. So that was good.

Still. That sort of affection from his angel was surprising, back then.

_Like:_

Twelve years after the world didn’t end, Aziraphale bought a set of pyjamas.

“Well, they’re not tartan.” Crowley oozed under the covers, his clothes already changed via miracle, and watched through half-closed eyes as Aziraphale undressed. “You really want to try sleeping? Not sure it’ll be your thing.”

“It will be an interesting experiment. Dreaming, for instance — it sounds fascinating. I do hope I can figure out how to do it.”

Crowley hummed distractedly. There was a lot of angel on display, now, as Aziraphale stepped out of his trousers. Round belly hanging downward, resting gently against round thighs. “Not something you figure out. You just do it.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose it can’t be too hard. _You_ manage, after all.”

Crowley threw a pillow. Aziraphale miracled it into midair a foot above Crowley’s face, adding a couple more for good measure.

By the time Crowley was done batting things away and sputtering, Aziraphale was buttoning up his pyjama shirt. His legs were bare and perfect beneath its hem, wide calves curving up into heavy thighs. Exactly right for cradling a demon’s weary head, those thighs. All soft rolls and gleaming stretch marks and pretty scrolling veins.

Everything was all covered by the time he climbed awkwardly into bed, lying like a corpse at first until Crowley prodded him into at least something _resembling_ a relaxed position. But that was all right. Crowley knew it was still there.

It turned out that Aziraphale took to sleeping surprisingly well. And the sight of him in the morning, rumpled and yawning with his shirt rucked up halfway to his chest, was sweeter than Crowley had even thought of imagining.

_Like:_

Thirty-one years after the world didn’t end, Gabriel walked into the shop.

There were words like “full pardon” and “bygones be bygones” and “without the demon, of course”. Aziraphale listened to it all with his arm around Crowley’s waist, and Crowley’s around his. Crowley had thought Aziraphale might need the contact as a source of comfort. As a reminder that _I’m here, I’m here and I love you and we’re on our side_.

Aziraphale’s arm around him hadn’t trembled a bit, though. When Gabriel finally ran out of bluster, the answer was one very firm word. “No.”

Even in the face of narrowed violet eyes, Aziraphale didn’t waver. Even when Gabriel added a not-so-vague threat, Aziraphale didn’t quail. 

Gabriel looked him up and down with an expression that begged for a face full of Hellfire, then said something extremely uncomplimentary about his corporation.

Aziraphale tilted his head up, smiling proudly. “I am exactly as I intend to be, Gabriel. I am here, on Earth, with Crowley. And I am soft. Now go away, please. I don’t want to speak with you anymore.”

The absolute fearlessness had been a surprise. The tenderness in Aziraphale’s touch, when he’d reached out to tip Crowley’s face toward him, had not. The gentle yearning of his lips had been very, very familiar.

_Like:_

It’s been more than half a century since the world didn’t end, since Aziraphale kissed him that very first time, walking back from the Ritz, his mouth still sweet with the torte and the cake and the mousse. Aziraphale has kissed him lots of times since then. Crowley has kissed Aziraphale possibly even more times. There’s no surprise in the kisses anymore, but there’s still delight. Crowley figures his heart will stop doing the tango every time their lips touch in about, oh, a million years or three.

Aziraphale can still surprise him, though, even after six thousand years of friendship and nearly sixty of... whatever it is when a demon gets to kiss an angel any time he likes. Like, for instance, when he suggests, one sleepy summer morning, that they go down for a swim.

They’re spending the week at their cottage, the one that’s maybe just a little more secluded and picturesque than anything else in the general locale. Some leaning on zoning laws, a tempted politician or three, the tiniest application of demonic miracle — really, it barely even counted as work, getting everything in place. The first time Crowley brought Aziraphale here, he’d found himself wrapped in those gorgeous arms almost before he could get them both in the door. He’d been held so tight that he’d turned the lungs off until they were accessible again. Which had been a surprise, granted, but not like this.

“D’you even have a swimsuit?” Crowley is sprawled across Aziraphale’s chest, neither of them showing any interest in getting out of bed quite yet. He says the words toward Aziraphale’s pretty round belly. All of Aziraphale is pretty and round, his belly and his arms and his wide, spreading thighs. Crowley would certainly be very happy to see Aziraphale show off some of that pretty roundness down at the shore, and yet. “Nude swimming isn’t really a thing in this part of the world anymore. Don’t particularly feel like breaking you out of jail again.”

Aziraphale makes an affronted little noise, although his hand doesn’t pause in its wanderings through Crowley’s hair. “You are never going to let me live down the Bastille, are you.”

Crowley burrows his cheek deeper against Aziraphale’s pyjama shirt. “Nope,” he agrees.

* * *

Crowley cooks breakfast while Aziraphale gets dressed. Miracling up an outfit is instantaneous; putting on however many dozen layers of actual clothing is not. He’s used to this by now, though. He’s gotten very good at making pancakes just the way Aziraphale likes them.

Not miracling, because Aziraphale swears it’s not the same, just like with the clothes. Fussy angel.

“Oh,” says the fussy angel now, coming up behind him as he works at the stove. “It smells delicious.”

All the beautiful softness Crowley could ever ask for presses up against his back, heavy arms wrapping his chest. He grins as the warm weight of Aziraphale’s chin settles on his shoulder. “Won’t cook any faster if you’re hovering.”

“I do not _hover_. I merely _supervise_.”

Aziraphale pulls away, though, digging out plates, setting the table. Crowley looks over at him as he sits down with a glass of orange juice. Belly rounded up on his lap, thighs wide against the chair. Absolutely ridiculous, how incredible he looks, just sitting there. Really should be a law against it. Really should be a point where Crowley gets _used_ to it. Of course, if six thousand years isn’t enough, maybe he just never will. Not so bad a fate, that.

They eat their breakfast, Aziraphale making a delighted little noise as the first mouthful hits his tongue, and then they go down to the shore.

“I don’t even recall the last time I went swimming,” Aziraphale says. He’s still dressed up in the same bloody thing he always wears, no coat but still trousers and waistcoat and silly tartan bow tie. An honest-to-Someone picnic basket swings from his right hand. “Well over a hundred and fifty years, I should think. What about you?”

Crowley pulls him closer with the hand that’s already around his waist, because where else would it be. “Oh, I spent half the 1970s in Blackpool. Lots of good tempting to do when everyone’s showing so much skin.” Then, letting their hips bump together, his bony thigh brushing up against Aziraphale’s round leg: “Speaking of, you’d better not be swimming in all _this_. Gonna have to show some skin of your own, I think.”

“I’m well aware,” Aziraphale replies primly. “And I assure you that my attire will be appropriate for the situation, as well as far more modest than those... those minuscule trunks _you_ seem to favor.”

Crowley stops them for a second, just long enough to pull his sunglasses down so he can drop an exaggerated wink. “Oh, angel,” he says, trying very hard not to laugh, “ _please_ let me miracle you up a pair of minuscule trunks.”

Aziraphale swats at him, and he does laugh, then. Kisses his very fat and very pretty angel, who makes a little “hmph!” sound, but kisses him back.

“You’d knock the humans dead anyway,” Crowley adds, as they start walking again. “Too much divine beauty. Pretty sure mortal eyes wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“You are a terrible flirt,” Aziraphale says. He sounds smug, though, and this time it’s his hip, wide and rolling, which knocks gently into Crowley’s. A little _Hello, I’m here, and I’m glad you are too_.

Crowley’s really not sure what makes any available spot along the crowded beach better than any other, but Aziraphale seems very sure of his decision to finally stop. And the blanket that comes out of the basket to be spread out on the pebbles is tartan. Of course.

“What a lovely warm day.” Aziraphale steps carefully out of his shoes, lining them up at the edge of the blanket. “Thank you for indulging my little whim, dear.”

Crowley grins. “Bit of a demonic scheme, is all. Get you to do my tempting for me. How many cases of envy you think we’ll have once the humans get a look at you? I figure a hundred, easy.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale says. It’s been a while since Crowley has been fooled by that scandalized tone.

He snaps himself into his minuscule trunks, trusting that no humans will care or notice the trick because he simply doesn’t want them to. Aziraphale, of course, is changing his clothing the human way. Fussy angel.

Crowley plops down on the blanket, leaning back on his hands. He likes watching Aziraphale change his clothing. Likes watching him do anything, but especially human things. Especially human things he loves, like eating, or reading books, or dressing up in ridiculous outdated fashions. Crowley could watch Aziraphale do these things for a very, very long time.

The waistcoat comes off first. Aziraphale’s clever pudgy fingers undo the buttons, top to bottom, and the soft fabric parts to reveal a swath of blue button-up, skimming fascinatingly over the rise of his belly. He twists around to pull it off, then buttons it back up so he can fold it as neatly as angelically possible. Bends over to set it on the blanket.

Next is the bow tie, tugged undone to rest in absolutely shocking disarray against his soft chest. Crowley waggles his eyebrows and growls, then laughs at the disapproving look he receives. Aziraphale starts giggling, though, as he pulls the thing loose and lays it to rest with the waistcoat.

“As if you weren’t completely harmless, you old serpent.”

“Coil around you and never let you go.” Crowley beams up at the sky for a moment. “We’ll see how harmless I am when you can’t get into any of your favorite restaurants with a giant snake round your lovely waist.”

Aziraphale makes a sound which someone less disgustingly in love with him might describe as a snort, then starts in on his shirt.

Crisp blue shirttails are untucked from his trousers to hang loose to his hips. His fingers go down a column of buttons again, starting just below the kissable curve of his chins, moving down his rounded chest and over the jut of belly. There’s a lot of Aziraphale to be revealed this way, and Crowley adores every little micrometer of him.

His adoration runs up against dismay when he realizes it’s not the usual white undershirt being revealed. Not bare skin either. It’s stripes, broad horizontal stripes, white and blue. As if what Aziraphale has on under his clothing is...

Crowley groans. “Oh, angel. Angel, my angel, _no_.”

“What? This is perfectly serviceable swimming attire.” Aziraphale starts work on the last few shirt buttons. “I’ve owned it since 1893 or so, and it’s still in excellent condition!”

“But nobody _wears_ that kind of...”

The shirt is off now. The suit is knit cotton, very soft-looking, very clinging. It hugs every one of Aziraphale’s many, many curves in a way which kind of just makes Crowley want to sit here and look forever.

It’s got cap sleeves, because Somebody forbid anyone see _shoulder_.

The shirt gets folded up just as neatly as the waistcoat had been, Aziraphale’s wide, gold-kissed arms bare and shining in the sun as he works. All the humans will see normal stretch marks. Only Crowley can see the gold. Although some of the humans will still see how precious, how beautiful the wandering lines are. Not all, but some.

“Pretty,” Crowley notes.

“Flatterer,” Aziraphale replies.

“‘M right, though.” Crowley flops back on the blanket, hands laced behind his head. “Prettiest thing this side of London, you are.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flash laughter down at him. “Oh? And what’s prettier on the other side of it?”

Crowley hums consideringly. “Wellll. You know how much I love the Oxford Botanic Garden...”

He might find Aziraphale’s shirt flung at his head right about now, except Aziraphale would never do anything so undignified to his clothing. Instead, there’s some muttering about vexatious demons, and an extremely poorly-hidden smile.

Then there’s fingers undoing trouser buttons, because Aziraphale probably last bought trousers when the “separable fastener” was still for shoes.

More stripes are revealed, more stupid tacky stripes on Aziraphale’s cliche of a Victorian bathing suit, as he lowers the trousers. The fabric clings just as well to his wide hips as it does his wide everything else. Really emphasizes how absurdly perfectly adorable he is. Crowley wasn’t kidding earlier about all the envy he expects them to generate out here, even if it’s not actually his primary goal. Seems like everyone should either wish they were Aziraphale, or wish they were Crowley, who gets to kiss Aziraphale. Who is thinking about kissing Aziraphale right now. Maybe let him get out of the trousers first, though.

“You could make yourself useful, you know, instead of staring.” Aziraphale steps one foot out, then the other, and he’s done. “There’s some very nice champagne in the basket.”

“Could do both. I’m good at multi-tasking.”

Crowley does get out the champagne, though, and the two glasses he finds. Because it’s what his angel wants.

His angel is now down to just the “perfectly serviceable swimming attire” which some tailor must have made for him in eighteen-ninety-whatever. The man’s long dead by this point, obviously, but if he wasn’t, Crowley would buy him a drink. The whole blessed bottle. Because Aziraphale always looks amazing, even in his bloody tartan he looks amazing, so of course he looks amazing with all his perfect beauty just out like this. 

Crowley is well aware of the fashion rule that fat people should not wear horizontal stripes. Whoever came up with the idea _plainly_ never saw Aziraphale in his bathing suit.

“Ahh,” Aziraphale says, hands on his magnificent hips. “It does feel good to let one’s hair down a bit every few decades.”

“Speaking of,” Crowley says, holding up one of the champagne flutes. When Aziraphale tries to take it, though, he pulls it back. Offers up an exaggerated pout and pats the blanket next to himself. “Spare just a minute for a poor lonely demon...?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “If you’re lonely, I’m sure I can spare more than a minute.” He sits down as primly as he does anything, then leans back on his hands, wide legs stretched out in front of himself. “After all, I do feel a bit... hmm, responsible for your emotional well-being, as it were.”

Crowley hands him one of the flutes. “Oh. Very kind, you are. Thoughtful.”

Blue eyes grin at him over the rim of the glass.

Crowley sips his own champagne for a little while, then sets it aside. He can drink it later, but right now his emotional well-being is pretty dependent on kissing some of his favorite parts of Aziraphale’s corporation. His angel has always been a rebel, in his own quiet way. Formed to be a soldier, so he gave his weapon away first chance he got. Surrounded himself in softness and comfort. Right down to the corporation he’d picked, very soft and very comfortable and very very needing to be kissed right now.

“... although I’m not sure we’ll be able to find —”

Crowley interrupts Aziraphale’s discussion of the local antique shops with a light brush of lips. Sometimes Aziraphale keeps talking after this, because he’s long since used to the fact that occasionally Crowley is just completely overcome with the need to kiss him regardless of what else is going on. Other times he is happy to be interrupted.

This time is one of those second things. Aziraphale makes a pleased sound in his throat, pressing forward to return the kiss. His skin is warm with sunlight, as Crowley traces a hand down one arm. Warm and soft and full of stretch marks, shining and perfect under Crowley’s fingertips.

Crowley breaks their kiss only so he can put his lips to the gold-spangled curve of Aziraphale’s bicep.

“Less lonely now,” he says. “Distinctly improved emotional well-being. You’re a real miracle worker.”

Aziraphale snorts laughter at that. It’s very unangelic and absolutely adorable.

Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand from the blanket, kissing the precious dimpled knuckles. “Quite the mood improver, you. Can feel all my troubles just melting away.”

“And what — oh!” Aziraphale laughs as Crowley plants a kiss on the irresistible curve of his jaw. “What troubles could you possibly have on a day like this?”

“Well.” Crowley kisses a pudgy cheek. “Tragedy, really.” The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “It’s my arms.” Aziraphale’s sweet upturned nose. “They’re e —”

He doesn’t finish, because he was going to say “they’re _empty_ , angel,” and then he was going to fling them around Aziraphale, around the glorious spread of Aziraphale’s belly which the suit hugs almost as lovingly as Crowley would like to. He is, however, interrupted before he can accomplish this particular goal.

Aziraphale reaches out with one arm, curling it around Crowley’s much less impressive waist, and pulls him close enough to press tender lips to his inked temple.

“Uh,” Crowley notes, while his train of thought is still trying to figure out what to do about the hole someone’s just dynamited through the track.

“What was wrong with your arms, darling?”

Crowley makes an assortment of noises, and Aziraphale grins.

“That’s what I thought.”

Thirty or forty years ago, maybe, that would have been the end of Crowley for a while. He’s had some practice at handling these sorts of things by now, though, and he’s capable of coherent thought and directed action within seconds. A minute, tops. 

In this case, the coherent thought is _arms’re still empty_. The directed action is to slither around until he’s sort of halfway pillowed in Aziraphale’s lap, arms draped lazily around the wide circuit of his hips.

Aziraphale scratches at his hair, which makes him say a few random not-words again. “Hello there, dearest.”

“Nn. Hi. Good news, arms are all better now. Feeling kind of excellent in general, really.” He snuggles his head down a little more comfortably into the perfect cushioning of Aziraphale’s legs. So warm beneath him. Covered, sort of, by the stupid striped bathing suit, although the legs are quite frankly cut a bit scandalously for their year of provenance. Showing a little bit of thigh wasn’t unheard of in mixed bathing settings back then, especially if you got out to the Continent. But it seems as though that long-dead tailor agreed with Crowley about how Aziraphale was so beautiful that covering him up too much probably constituted some kind of crime.

Crowley sacrifices his hold on Aziraphale in order to turn over and kiss one pretty leg. Right beneath the hem of the suit, where a little cluster of blue-purple veins rises up against the skin.

“I’m very glad we were able to sort out your difficulties. My poor, lonely, ever so slightly besotted demon.” 

“Hey now,” Crowley replies, “‘M _completely_ besotted, and don’t you go forgetting it.”

He traces a couple of fingers along Aziraphale’s shockingly-exposed leg. Gold shines here, for anyone who has the eyes to see it, in stretch marks that grace the widest parts of him. Crowley’s touch coasts up and down gentle curves of flesh, from mid-thigh down to Aziraphale’s adorably pudgy knees. There are smaller variations in the skin too, tiny dimples and bumps, which the humans call cellulite and spend billions of pounds a year trying to get rid of. Veins curl through everything, twining like meandering rivers, raised and rambling and carrying Crowley’s love along their wandering paths.

“Gorgeous,” Crowley says, following one thick vein with his finger. “Should pay an artist to sculpt you. Put your statue in the Louvre.” He ignores Aziraphale’s amused little scoff, much more interested in kissing the spot where a series of soft bumps meets up with a larger cluster of blue. “Course, the lines would stretch halfway across the city, then. Be riots.” Aziraphale’s scoff is louder. “Greed, envy. Loads of wrath. Proper demonic work, that.”

He leans over just far enough to smack a kiss on one perfect fat knee, then lays his head back down on Aziraphale’s perfect fat thighs.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, sighs, but does nothing that might cause Crowley to have to relocate. If anything, the hand that settles on Crowley’s head, fingers slowly whispering through his hair, seems as though it would rather he stay put. “You are not causing any riots today, love.”

“Not even a little one —”

“ _No_. Riots.”

Crowley mumbles something about mean angels and poor demons. He trails off somewhere in the middle, though, lulled by the hand in his hair into a sound with a lot of satisfaction in it, but no words. Very soft, that hand. Like the belly that spills over the thighs, and the thighs themselves, wide and dimpled and ornamented with coils of purpled blue. Maybe the veins spell out something, in some language neither of them has ever known. If so, it’s some variant of _beautiful_. Of _precious_ and _irreplaceable_ and _loved_.

Crowley says a few of those words, and the hand in his hair moves to his cheek, fingertips tracing lightly along the edges of him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmurs, “yes, you are.”

“Nnhg,” Crowley says.

He doesn’t quite doze, but the snake in him does spend a few minutes enjoying the warm sun above him, the warm angel beneath. The part of him which is not a snake enjoys the continued stroking of his hair and skin.

“Swim,” he tells Aziraphale’s knees after a while. “Whole reason we came down here, was for you to swim. And me to show you off, but. Break a dozen hearts just walking from here to the water, you will.”

Aziraphale’s high laugh spirals gorgeously into the sky.

It’s not the most pleasant thing for Crowley, slithering up from his pretty resting place. Although there being a kiss at the end of it — Aziraphale’s arm wrapping around him and drawing him close, speaking love against his lips without having to say a word — does lessen the sting, a little. This language, they do both know.

“I would like to go for a dip now, yes.” Aziraphale shifts, starting to draw his legs up under himself. “I assume you’ll be making all sorts of scandalous remarks about my attire on my return?”

Crowley gives him his most suggestive grin, the one neither of them has any illusions about actually meaning anything. “You in wet, clinging fabric? Angel, I’m gonna prepare a _speech_.”

That earns him another kiss. Sweet, closed-mouth, lingering. It’s a very very good kiss.

Then Aziraphale is up, making his way to where the waves froth against the shore. He steps over the pebbles in the same fussy way he’d walk down the pavement back home. Ridiculous. Sublimely ridiculous, in his stupid antique bathing suit. Stripes and all. Every roll and curve of him right there in the sunlight, fat belly and hips covered but not at all concealed, and fat legs and arms bare to the world. Gleaming stretch marks and the soft cellulite Crowley wouldn’t pay a single pound to get rid of, let alone billions. And the raised veins which form the map, form the territory, of the gorgeous body containing the bastard Crowley loves.

There are a few admiring looks, as Aziraphale walks into the waves. Crowley puts a quick little blessing on every human who sees Aziraphale for the glorious thing he is.

Aziraphale splashes around for a bit. No other angel in all of Heaven would be willing to act so undignified, probably. No wonder Crowley loves this one. Only one out of ten million bastards worth anything. Laughing, now, as a sudden wave smashes in liquid shards around his hips. Laughing and beautiful. Every bit of him beautiful.

When he finally comes back in, the knit stripes of his suit cling extremely lovingly to his corporation, and Crowley makes any number of suggestive jokes which Aziraphale barely even sputters at anymore. There is, in fact, a very pleased smile on his pudgy face. And the kiss he gives Crowley is accompanied by a half-whispered “You _awful_ serpent” in a tone which doesn’t match the words at all.

“The awfulest,” Crowley agrees, before finding his lips otherwise engaged.

There are snacks in the picnic basket, of course, and a book. Everything Aziraphale might need to enjoy himself. Crowley nibbles on a few bits which Aziraphale offers him, but he doesn’t need a book. He can read the lines of Aziraphale’s face, familiar and loved. Exactly what he wants to look at for the rest of time.

A plump hand pats an even plumper thigh. “I won’t be moving for a bit, love, if you would like to lie down again.”

“Won’t move the rest of the night if I let you.” Crowley sprawls into Aziraphale’s lap, nuzzling his cheek against the sun-warmed, vein-swirled skin. “Read straight through till morning. Then you’ll wonder why you’re so hungry, and I’ll say it’s because you skipped dinner, and you’ll say no, that can’t be it, that doesn’t sound at all like you...”

Aziraphale’s voice is very amused. “That predictable, am I?”

“‘N I love you.” Crowley tilts his head just enough to kiss his ethereal pillow. “I’ll keep an eye on the time, pretty angel. You read your book.”

There’s a quiet “hmph”, but Aziraphale’s hand traces through his hair, and it’s so gentle that something in Crowley’s throat aches. “Thank you, my treasure. I love you too.”

No surprise, that. Crowley’s been hearing it nearly every single day — sometimes multiple times a day — for half a century, now, and has said it back just as much. There’s no surprise anymore in Aziraphale loving him, showing that love in delightful little human ways, with kisses and cuddles and sweet, gentle words. With a round hand slowly petting Crowley’s hair, stopping only for the occasional page turn.

The angel can still surprise him, sometimes, and he’s very predictable other times, and throughout it all Crowley loves him. Crowley intends to continue loving Aziraphale, from his gorgeous fat corporation to his brilliant bastard mind, for all the rest of eternity.

For now, he dozes, head cradled by soft, wide-spreading thighs. The sun is warm. And any further surprises can wait, he’s sure, until after his nap.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Me:** Hmm, what shall I title this fic? Song lyrics, maybe. Songs about surprises. Hrm.  
>  **My brain:** No Surprises, by Radiohead?  
>  **Me:** ...no. No, the, uh. The opposite of that.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one. I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured. 
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too.
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([beautiful fanart created for me by Squeegeelicious](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for)) ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> I hope you're having a fantastic day.


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